


We Are Mirrors

by politic_x



Category: Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-11
Updated: 2011-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/431371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politic_x/pseuds/politic_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In response to Wake the Muse: DWP Comment Ficathon , and the request by jbthedelirious : Emily/Serena If you could see yourself in my eyes</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Mirrors

There she was - on the dance floor, a vibrant streak in a sea of monochrome, and Serena's evening suddenly began. Forget Christoff, who’d managed to get Serena to the gala before it was too late; forget Nigel spotting her across the room and making his way over. Forget Miranda staring her down from a distance.

Emily was the reason she'd bothered to rush straight to Runway from the airport, raid the closet, and catch her co-worker as he was leaving the office. Serena, skidding across the floor in her Louboutins, trying not to break her neck or rip her gown when she dashed toward him as he pushed the elevator button. "Your hair," he said with some amusement, his accent heavier than hers. "It is charming."

She'd raked her fingers through it and hoped for the best. At least she'd done her makeup on the airplane, taking more care than usual. And then it was almost for naught, because they had circled for so long that she'd thought everyone would be gone by now.

But Miranda was here, so the party was still lively. And Emily was breathtaking. How to steal her from the young man whose arm she was on? It didn't matter. Serena would think of something. She brushed past Nigel just as he reached her. "Oi, friend," she said. "Must visit the ladies room; just landed." Christoff caught her arm, but Serena - when focused - let nothing deter her, and she smiled, "Não agora," and shook him off, and made her way through the crowd, taller than half the room. Tall as the models.

But she wasn't a model, was she? Even though heads turned her way, Serena didn't pretend it was her beauty. She had thought herself pretty, once upon a time, but then she had begun working for Runway. "You're not pretty enough to be a model. That's why you're in my office, wasting my time with your unfortunate resume," Miranda had said to her.

Serena pressed forward, her shoes adding even more to her height. It wasn't her typical costume, this couture dress, these difficult heels, but Emily never noticed her, did she? And Serena was tired of being in the shadows. She pushed through the throng on the dance floor.

"May I?" she asked, tapping Emily's male friend on the shoulder.

He looked up at her with a wide smile. "Abso-fucking-lutely," he drawled, dropping his dance partner so quickly that Emily was still moving to the beat of the song, even as his hands grabbed Serena's hips.

Serena pushed him aside, her eyes fixed on the woman she'd not seen in a month. Emily finally looked up, her eye makeup an intense teal, her irises pale in contrast. "Serena," she said rather coldly, and marched off the dance floor to a mostly empty table.

Serena followed, still undeterred, and sat in the chair beside her, the one with Tommy Harris' name on the placard. Tommy from Accounting. Serena glanced at the other cards, and they were all Runway employees, which meant that no miracles had happened while she was gone - Emily still wasn't getting the respect she deserved. She should be at Miranda's table, mingling with the designers. Serena glanced out into the crowd. That seat would probably have been given to Andy.

"So," Serena said, focusing on Emily once more. "I have returned, as you can see."

Emily rolled her eyes and sipped from her glass of water.

"You look beautiful this evening," Serena tried again.

An upward tilt of her chin, and Emily looked down her nose at her own fingernails. She admired them for a while, then returned her attention to the dance floor, to the employees milling about, to the wait staff serving cocktails.

"A penny for your thoughts," Serena murmured, leaning close to her ear. She saw the prickle of chills cross Emily's arms.

"A penny wouldn't be enough for my thoughts," Emily sniffed.

Serena dug in her purse and pulled it all out, slapping the table so hard the other woman jumped. "This is everything I have… wait, no…." She felt some coins floating in the bottom, and pulled them out. "This is everything," she said.

Emily stared at the wad of bills and change, frowning.

"Forty three dollars, sixty cents, twenty-five reais and fifteen centavos." Serena offered her most charming smile. "Is that enough to buy your thoughts?"

"No." Emily didn't look up, but frowned at the money.

Serena turned her lips down in a pout. "But it's all I have."

"How unfortunate for you."

"Maybe we can have an exchange? You tell me your thoughts, and I will give you something," Serena tried.

"I don't think you have anything I want."

In the moment their eyes met, Serena realized that this was true. Emily made it very clear that she was off limits to everyone. It was satire, Serena's life. Satire. Her smile turned wistful. "Unfortunately, I believe you are correct. Verdadeiro." Her smile left altogether, and she pushed her chair back.

Emily caught her arm. "No, wait." She licked her lips. "How was your trip?"

Serena's smile was always on the ready, and it softened her face once more. "My mother is doing much better now. She is home with my sister Ana. My sister Camila visited for a short time. My brother Mateo, who lives in Argentina, visited us for a week, and he brought his wife, Mariana, and his daughters, Sofia and Isabela, who -"

"There's something I need to tell you," Emily interrupted.

Serena didn't look at her, but at the table, at her money. She pushed it toward Emily, trying to be cute.

"I don't want your money," the girl hissed, and pushed it back. "Don't be stupid."

There were a few things Serena was very good at - makeup, for instance. But she was seldom the smartest person in the room. However, Emily had always treated her like she was very clever, all the time, at everything. Until now. She looked at the redhead, bewildered and hurt by her behavior this evening. She had been gone three and a half weeks, and all she could think about was getting back, seeing her, this woman who apparently thought her pouco atraente… infeliz… something.

"I wanted to…" Emily sighed. "I wanted to thank you for this," she said, and pointed to her eyelids. "And this," and pointed to her hair.

Serena gazed at her curiously. They had never discussed it. Not in the almost two years she'd known Emily. It was just a fact: Emily's hair needed to be brassy, her makeup bold, her clothing severe, her tone sharp. It was just a fact.

It was a fact brought to Serena's attention the day she met Emily. Serena had been delivering something to Miranda from the beauty department and saw her, standing in Miranda's office. Emily, who was experiencing her first week at Runway, had looked so innocent and lovely: her hair a subtle shade of ginger; her makeup muted; her clothes, understated and feminine.

Serena had seen the way Miranda's eyes had lingered on her new assistant. The same way Miranda's eyes had lingered on Serena, when she had been her assistant. More would come from that if Serena didn't intervene, so she had. She'd intercepted Emily in the cafeteria as soon as she could, and warned her. "She will do this," Serena had said, and exaggerated her movements to mimic Miranda ogling her. "Even if she tells you that you are unattractive."

Emily had gotten pissed at the insinuation. "I'm quite attractive, I'll have you know."

"Of course," Serena had said. "But no one is beautiful to Miranda."

Emily hadn't believed her at first. Then Serena gave her examples from her own past. "She thought you were ugly?" Emily had said, her eyebrows arching.

"She said I could never be a model," she told Emily. "My sisters are both models. I modeled when I was a child, frequentemente. Now…" she shrugged her shoulders. "The queen of fashion says that I am ugly."

"And you believe her?" Emily had said.

This is what Serena always remembered from that conversation two years ago. She thought about it sometimes when she looked in the mirror. "And you believe her?" Miranda's opinion was the only one that mattered at Runway. This held true for everyone, including Serena, until she met Emily. And the moment Emily had said that, Serena's point of view shifted, and she knew she must protect her.

But Emily had been worried. She needed this job, she had said. She'd do whatever it took to succeed at it. Which made Serena a bit sad. Because Miranda's idea of 'whatever it took' wasn't very fair. Still, Serena convinced Emily to visit her that evening for a lesson on dealing with Miranda. It was to become the first of several.

She explained how Miranda preferred young women who weren't fashion-forward - girls she could mold. Miranda didn't seem to be satisfied by the assistants who came to her already steeped in their own identities, who weren't afraid to wear some color and heels and drama.

She suggested that Emily apply vibrant eye shadow. She wanted to dye her hair a flashier shade of red. She wanted to change her wardrobe, directing her to the wackier designers. "You need some edges," Serena had said to her.

Emily had winced and looked down at her body. "You think I'm fat?"

"No, não… edges. You should be hard and pointy, not soft and kind. You can do that with clothes, too. You can show Miranda that you are hard." She walked to one of her roommates' bedrooms, and opened the closet. "Like this," she said, and gestured at the clothing.

Emily gasped. "Is that Rick Owens?"

Still, she was reluctant to change. Serena didn't blame her - Emily was so pretty. Her soft smile, her beautiful eyes and pale skin… "I'll think about it," Emily said.

Serena crossed her arms. "She will try to have sex with you, and if you refuse, she will fire you."

"She can't-"

"She will. Do you really want to sleep with your fifty year-old boss?" At Emily's hesitation, she continued. "It won't help you climb the ladder, if that's what you think. She will only humiliate you and make you feel ugly."

Emily frowned. "Are you… did you…?"

"I was her assistant," Serena told her.

"And you…"

"She will make you hate mirrors," Serena said.

Emily didn't agree to the makeover immediately, but she decided she could use some training in assertiveness. The next evening, Serena began teaching her to be aggressive, abrasive, and cold. They practiced together in Serena's apartment: Serena, looking over her glasses, calling: "Emily? Emily! Did I ask for iced coffee?" And Emily replying with a sweet giggle, "No, Miranda." One of Serena's roommates calling from another room: "You're fired!" while another shouted: "That's all!"

They had been practicing for a week, Emily half-hearted about the whole thing, until one evening when she showed up on Serena's doorstep early, her eyes wide. "She touched me," Emily said.

"Where?" Serena asked warily.

Emily had looked away. "Show me how to do the eye shadow," she said. And began taking her lessons very seriously. Within a few days, her entire being – demeanor, posture, clothing, hair, makeup, voice – everything screamed 'stay away'.

And Miranda did.

Everyone did, except Serena, who seemed to be the only one who wanted to be close to scathing, snappish, agitated Emily. Who wasn't really scathing, snappish or agitated at all once you got her away from Miranda. Once you snuck Emily away for a Sunday of shopping or museums or a play, Emily slipped into a gentler frame of mind. Her sharp barbs became clever witticisms; her frantic pace slowed to energetic and almost cheerful; her stony face relaxed into a thoughtful countenance. She said 'thank you' when Serena brought her small gifts: a copy of Elle, a bottle of vitamin water, a new eye shadow. She even smiled sometimes.

But still, she kept Serena at arm's length all this time, as if she didn't trust her any more than she trusted Miranda. Which was absurd and ridiculous. Serena would never hurt Emily. "That was two years ago," she said. "And you are thanking me now?"

Emily's chin lifted and the haughtiness settled on her features once more.

An arrogant little princess. "I don't think you have anything I want," Emily had said. You have everything I want, Serena thought. She followed Emily's gaze, and found herself looking across the room at Miranda, as the editor eyed her second assistant.

"Did you ever warn Andy?"

Emily's expression became even stonier. "I didn't think there was a need," she said. "She was fat, she wore those awful clothes, her hair was hideous… it was as if she already knew. Like she came prepared."

They had been watching their boss, but now they both stared at Andy, who seemed completely focused on Miranda. "Miranda persuaded her to change," Serena said.

"Well, she is very persuasive, isn't she? She made her into exactly what she wanted her to be," Emily remarked. "Do you think they're fucking?"

"You would know better than I," Serena replied.

There was a pause. Then, "I missed you," Emily admitted.

Serena looked at her kindly. "I missed you as well," she said. "Muitissimo." She touched her arm.

Emily stopped frowning, but she was still tightly wound, still tense. "My review comes up next week. I didn't think you'd be back." She continued staring at Miranda and Andy. "I wanted to talk to you about it."

Serena waited. Emily may say that she expected to be promoted in a lateral move, as an assistant to the beauty editor or accessories editor, which wouldn't surprise Serena. Emily may say that she expected not to be promoted at all, which wouldn't surprise Serena. Emily may say that she expected to be transferred to London, which would upset Serena.

"I won't work for Miranda anymore," Emily said. "I mean, I won't report to her. I won't have a need for any of this…" She gestured vaguely to her face and hair.

Serena didn't understand, so she remained silent.

Emily cleared her throat and lifted her chin. "I thought you might … maybe you would prefer if I…" She looked down at her lap uncertainly. "Maybe you liked me better when you met me, before the… When I still wore Chanel and had, you know, lighter hair and less makeup."

Serena stared at her quietly for a long moment, absorbing this. Emily wouldn't look at her, though, no matter how long the silence dragged out, so finally she said, "If you could see yourself in my eyes."

Emily's head jerked up, her eyes wide.

"You are beautiful, either way. Have I not said so?"

Emily opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it.

"Then I tell you now: you are beautiful." Serena rushed, words tripping. "I don't care for it - Chanel or Westwood or makeup or no. Hair red or ginger or blonde or … No… não é importante."

"I hate mirrors," Emily muttered.

"It is like I say," Serena said softly. "Yes? She has made you hate them. Let us play this game: I will be your mirror and you will be mine."

Emily frowned.

"You will look at me every time you need to see yourself."

"Right. You: my mirror. If you were my mirror, I'd never wear makeup."

Serena was light in the face of Emily's sarcasm. "If you were my mirror, I'd smile all the time."

"You already smile all the time."

"See, it is working," Serena grinned.

Emily blushed and sipped water. Finally: "You were going to dance with me," she said. "Out there," gesturing to the dance floor. "Not Dylan."

Serena nodded. "Yes." A slow song was beginning and she extended her hand.

Emily glanced at her, and then the dance floor, and then something – someone else – caught her eye, and Serena looked. Miranda was glaring at them.

"Okay," Emily breathed, and placed her hand in Serena's.

They danced closely, not the only same-sex pair on the floor, but the only female couple. Serena noticed Miranda staring them down, her gaze violent. And when Emily noticed Miranda watching, she trembled.

"Don't worry about her," Serena said. "She is understandably jealous."

A smile broke out on Emily's face.

Serena felt a tap on her shoulder and turned, and there was Emily's previous dance partner, Dylan. "May I have this dance?" he asked, looking hopeful.

Serena chuckled. Her life was satire.

"No," Emily said haughtily. Her palms rested on the small of Serena's back, pressing her closer. "She's with me."

Or perhaps not satire. Não.

 

/end


End file.
